


The Container

by PurpleSnowball



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Community: holmestice, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 05:30:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleSnowball/pseuds/PurpleSnowball
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock is kidnapped, for a change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Container

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Piplover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piplover/gifts).



> Translated into Russian by N_Valkyrie: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2048709 
> 
> I wish I knew how to make a proper link

**The container + 12 hours**  
Doctor John Watson was not a patient man. He was prone to agitation if he felt he was being excluded; to irritation when his unspoken, but exacting, standards of household order were not maintained; to overt displays of emotion when people were in danger. He was singularly impatient when Sherlock’s lack of self-preservation put him in jeopardy. 

So where was John? Sherlock paced the interior of the container with measured, two-metre strides. Ten by four metres. Total darkness. Empty, except for the handcuffs he'd discarded within minutes of regaining consciousness. He was imprisoned in a standard shipping container, probably soon-to-be-bound for a remote location. No phone and isolated enough that there was no response to either yelling or banging the handcuffs against the metal walls. A novel method of committing murder, he had to admit, however Sherlock was quite sure he was not the first to fall foul of this particular technique. Curtis, a mid-scale drug dealer hoping the current deal would propel him to the "big time", was nothing if not predictable. Others had been treated this way. Curtis clearly didn't realise who he'd kidnapped, had considered Sherlock to be disposable. He had not factored loyal, dependable John into his assumptions. John would come, and John would get him out.

Not that Sherlock was waiting to be rescued like some damsel in distress.

It had been over 12 hours. John would surely have realised that Sherlock’s absence was unusual. Even John would have deduced, by now, that something was seriously amiss. He would be re-tracing Sherlock's last known movements, and working with Lestrade to track him down. Wouldn't he?

God, being kidnapped was boring. 

And more to the point, where the bloody hell was Mycroft?

\-------------------------------

One day earlier

‘No, Sherlock.” John raised his hand to cut off the “but” that was forming on his flatmate’s lips. “No.” He put down his tea, and picked up his newspaper, shaking out the folds and opening it to the events, no the arts, section. “I am going out with Orla tonight,” he said, completely obscured now by the newspaper’s tedious headline about some cabinet reshuffle or some such - dull - and, even worse, the football pages.

Sherlock huffed, considered pulling the newspaper out of John’s hands (no, that hadn’t gone down well the last time he’d tried it), to make eye contact. John could rarely refuse Sherlock, but this was evidently one of the rare occasions when the pull of a case - a smuggling case that very much appealed to Sherlock’s inner pirate - proved less enticing to John than his fourth date with the nurse from Shoreditch. Damn the woman.

“Fine, then,” Sherlock said. “I’ll call Lestrade.”

“Good,” said John, peeping over the top of the newspaper in a way that reminded Sherlock of a small hedgehog.

Sherlock retired to his room. Of course, he had no intention of calling Lestrade and the imbeciles from Customs. They would get in the way, tip off the smuggling ring (which Sherlock was sure extended much higher up than might be assumed) and ruin his chance to bring down the entire house of cards. If John was busy, he would have to go alone.

\-------------------------------

 **The container + 22 hours**  
Nearly a day has passed before Sherlock remembered that Mycroft was attending a diplomatic summit in Argentina, and was unlikely to be able to intervene, even if he (or his minions) could find the wretched container. Just John, then.

 **The container + 36 hours**  
Sherlock was no longer sure whether the sensory deprivation or the increasing physical discomfort was the most unpleasant factor in his current predicament. Boredom was battling with the increasingly strident requirements of his transport - demanding water and food, experiencing a dull, throbbing pain in his head where he had been knocked out, and the sharper pain in his kidneys, where he assumed he'd been kicked during his incarceration. And it was cold.

There was also the knowledge, gnawing through his brain with sharp, relentless ferocity, that he'd been locked inside a bloody shipping container for a day and a half and John had not found him. The thought made him angry: when John was kidnapped (which was often) Sherlock _always_ found him quickly. Sherlock could find victims from the mud on the shoes of a kidnapper, why on earth was it taking John so long? He was always there for John when it mattered. Where was John now that Sherlock needed him?

He got up from the floor, adding stiff limbs and lethargy to his list of transport-related concerns and paced up and down - five strides in one direction, turn and repeat - if John had been with him, instead of on a bloody date, this would never have happened. Sherlock resolved to make sure John had no more dates with insipid, fawning, dull women. Ever. Again. John shouldn't want to spend time with other people - Sherlock didn't - he should want to spend time with Sherlock. John always came first for him (cases excepted, obviously) and he would never stand John down for the sake of a date.

He stopped pacing. Oh. How could he have missed _that?_

_\-------------------------------_

_**The container + 49 hours**  
By forty hours, Sherlock had not paced the interior of the container for some time. He was propped in a corner, legs drawn up, with his chin on his knees. He was pretty sure - but no longer certain - that the container was still lined up on the banks of the Thames and was not yet in transit. He was finding it hard to keep his thoughts in focus, and had given up the pretence of being able to control his base physical functions with the power of his intellect. He was thirsty. So much that the hunger, pain and boredom had ceded defeat to the superior opponent, and all he could think about was water. _

_Thirsty. An average person could live for three days without fluids before dying of dehydration. Mild symptoms - impaired concentration, lethargy, decreased urine output. Moderate symptoms - weakness, poor cognitive function, decreased coordination. Sherlock had them all, and was edging towards severe._

_Sherlock shut his eyes. He fell asleep trying to think about John, and the exact shade of his eyes._

_He woke to a commotion outside he container. The sound of footsteps running, a gunshot, and silence. John's voice, calling his name. Sherlock banged on the walls with the handcuffs, wincing at the echo. Another gunshot, this one much closer (shooting the lock, he assumed) and John was (finally) there. He ran to Sherlock, who wished he had the energy to stand up and appreciate his friend/blogger/secret crush._

_"Sherlock, can you hear me?" John said, crouching down to evaluate his patient. "I'm calling an ambulance." John had his phone out and barked out their location. Sherlock leaned up,fractionally, and whispered his thanks in light breaths against John's face. John took Sherlock's hand to take his pulse, and Sherlock used the contact to lean in and kiss him, softly a gentle press of lip to lip. John stiffened, but did not pull away._

_"Don't go on any more dates, John." Sherlock whispered, if John replied, Sherlock didn't hear it.  
\-------------------------------_

_Sherlock was taken to the Royal London, hooked up to a drip overnight and discharged the next morning. John was watching from the window when the taxi pulled up at Baker Street. By the time Sherlock made it up the stairs, the kettle was rattling on the stove and John was making tea._

_"I didn't expect them to discharge you so quickly," John said._

_"I'm not the easiest patient," Sherlock said, tossing his Belstaff over the back of the sofa - it definitely needed dry cleaning - and loosening his scarf._

_John was hovering in the doorway, holding a teabag in one hand, scrutinising Sherlock with a doctorly concern, and wearing an expression that Sherlock couldn't read. "Are you alright?" he said._

_"Nothing that a hot shower won't fix." Sherlock said. John's face shifted. And Sherlock honestly did not mean it _that way, but John clearly did, and was suddenly right up in Sherlock's personal space, still holding the teabag, and reaching up with his other hand to clasp Sherlock's neck and pull him down into a kiss that tasted of tea and peppermint, that was harsh and domineering and that slightly hurt Sherlock's cracked and dehydrated lips. It felt incredible. Sherlock submitted to the sensation of John's lips against his, his tongue invading Sherlock's mouth. A shock of sensation. Sherlock's knees buckled. John pulled back.__

__"Oh God," he said, "I'm so sorry - pouncing on you as soon as you get through the door. It just feels that I've been waiting for this for months." He backed away a few steps. The shock of losing the exquisite taste/smell/essence of John was as jarring as the unexpected kiss. Sherlock's knees returned to full duty, allowing him to step back into John's space, grasp him round the waist and lean into him._ _

__"Don't you dare stop." He said against John's lips, before kissing him again. This time, Sherlock was not submissive. The kiss was a push and pull. A meeting of equals. Sherlock broke away first, slightly out of breath and suddenly hyper-conscious that he'd been wearing the same clothes for three days._ _

__"Shower. Now". John said, and, oh, there was the soldier voice that had been the subject of Sherlock's wank fantasies for months. And if he hadn't been fully hard already (which he was from just one kiss), the command would certainly have done it._ _

__Sherlock took John's mouth again, and walked him towards the bathroom. "Only if you come with me" he said._ _

__Sherlock stripped, reluctantly letting John go, and stepped under the hot water. He felt his muscles instantly relax, and stretched, letting the tension of his kidnapping bleed away. John had found him, and he had found John._ _


End file.
